Firebird
by htebazytook
Summary: light Crowley/Aziraphale slash. "In the background Crowley and Aziraphale met on the tops of buses, and in art galleries, and at concerts, compared notes, and smiled."
1. I Pas de Deux

Title: Firebird: I. Pas de Deux

Rating: PG (for Shakespeare)

Summary: "In the background Crowley and Aziraphale met on the tops of buses, and in art galleries, and at concerts, compared notes, and smiled."

Disclaimer: --

Warnings: Um. A 'Dorian Gray' spoiler, actually, if that fazes you.

Author's Notes: My most interesting interests, I feel, are music, 'Good Omens', and trilogies, and this little fanfiction trio therefore has it all. sbluerazchoccie is a beta-ing goddess, and one of the footnotes in here is her fault.

Aziraphale loved Oscar Wilde.

No, not in _that_ way.

Aziraphale (an angel), who had been thoroughly engrossed in _The Picture of Dorian Gray_, was interrupted when a sleek-sounding engine zoomed into earshot and hissed to a halt. Impatient, expensive footsteps made not a sound. The door to the shop swung open silently.

Crowley sneezed. He really, really shouldn't have to suffer through dust allergies, he thought, even if Bible-dust abounded.

"Bless you," Aziraphale said absentmindedly.

Crowley scowled. "No, bless _you_."

"What do you want?" The way he glanced up at the demon with only his eyes gave Crowley an impression of glasses, but Aziraphale didn't wear (or, indeed, need) them.

"Well, excuse me for saying hullo." He did seem genuinely affronted, around the edges. "I heard that the kid's going out on the town, as it were. I thought I'd tag along. It's only fair to let you know."

"Excuse me, 'out on the town'? He's barely a year old, Crowley?"

The demon tilted his head. "He'll be two in three months."

"That soon."

"Mhmm. Listen, Aziraphale, are you coming or not? We _have_ got to hurry if we're going to catch the same bus."

"Well, I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to observe him in person." He paused. "Bus?"

"You make him sound like an animal at the zoo. Or an experiment."

"And he's not?"

"Good point. Now come _on_, angel. I know for a fact you've read that book more often than the author proofread it. The guy dies at the end. Big surprise."

Aziraphale made a disapproving noise, but nevertheless rose and began shuffling through the jackets on the coat-rack.(1) "Lots of people die in _Dorian Gray_. And it's mostly his fault," he said with a little glare.

"Oh, no you don't." The demon held up a finger. "I only give them all their options. I don't make them choose like you do, I simply stand back and _let_ them choose."

"Along with some nudging." His responses were getting to be automatic, deflective gestures. Crowley did show up so often lately—he couldn't be troubled with thinking up original responses.

"Which you wouldn't dream of stooping to."

"I merely offer them additional, ethical perspectives." Aziraphale slipped on a lightweight tweed jacket, nudged him, and started out the door. "Are you coming, my dear?"

-----

1. Variations on tartan and tweed, and a sensibly warm fur-collared coat for the winter.

-----

Aziraphale was beginning to get suspicious of the way Crowley seemed to have some inner itinerary at his disposal and was apparently charging himself with keeping them to it. He darkened the angel's door nearly weekly—how was Aziraphale supposed to get anything done?

"Get what done," Crowley had protested, "thwarting under cover of a book? And anyway, I'm right here."

Previously, it had only been possible to take the demon in small doses. That didn't seem to be the case now, however, especially with so many new avenues of discussion opened by the Apocalypse. On top of that, Crowley was apparently hell-bent, as it were, on widening Aziraphale's cultural horizons. Whenever he showed up, it was unfailingly to whisk the angel away to something interesting and, although Crowley was unable to admit it, vaguely touristy. Aziraphale didn't really mind, and they did have Warlock to think of, and really it was necessary to keep up to date on his progress.

There was no reason to slack off on this. In fact, there was every reason to practice far more seriousness then they were wont to. This mattered.

Currently they were sitting, of all places, on the top of a double-decker tour bus, which was _overtly_ touristy. The Americans wore their country's flag just in case they weren't recognisable by their pronunciations or obnoxiousness, but all of the brightly dressed, knapsacked humans made a general commotion that was especially difficult to bear considering the assault of different languages on their ears. Everybody seemed encouraged to speak more boisterously than usual because nobody else could, presumably, understand them. Aziraphale hunkered down in his seat in the back row.

The front rows were occupied by several stern, lethal-looking men with an official demeanor. They might have been unremarkable if it not for the very conspicuous baby in their midst.

The golden-haired little baby who would destroy the world. He was drooling on a Secret Service agent's pristine suit.

"I heard he's taken his first steps already," Aziraphale whispered, as if for the sake of the sleeping baby five rows ahead of them.

"Doesn't it usually take a bit longer for that?"

"He's bright." Aziraphale smiled. "Yes, I think he'll do the right thing, in the end."

"By the right thing you mean _your_ right thing."

"Well, my right thing _is_ the right thing, I'm afraid."

"Right." Crowley picked at his nails.

"I believe his first word was 'Father'," Aziraphale continued. "Well, an abbreviation, of course, but the intention was undoubtedly the same."

Crowley rolled his eyes.

"During the baptism, you know."

"I might point out who his actual father is."

They had had an argument over baptism. Eventually a comprise was settled upon that involved a kitchen sink and a man posing as a pastor. Crowley seemed to think he had won, pronouncing how certain he was that it didn't work without holy water, while Aziraphale maintained that it was the thought that counted. It also probably eased Aziraphale's conscience to know that the phony preacher _had_ used holy water.(1)

It was very unlikely that it made a difference, anyway. Warlock couldn't be very easy to kill, and who knew where he'd end up if he was?

Crowley nodded in the boy's direction. "Kid's waking up."

_He doesn't look very demonic,_ Aziraphale thought. _I suppose that's the point._

"So should we go pry into his brain or something?"

"How should I know? _You_ asked me along. I only came to thwart you," said Aziraphale. "Besides, it's terribly rude, so no—and consider yourself thwarted."

"Well, you know, I wouldn't mind some input," Crowley said irritably. "We're supposed to be working together on this, in case you forgot."

"All we've done so far is confirm Warlock's continued existence," Aziraphale remarked.

"Yes, I _know_ that, so I was thinking maybe—oh." It had begun to drizzle. The demon glared at the water on his suit until it disappeared.

Aziraphale, too, made a face and coaxed the drizzling elsewhere. "Well, I'm sure the flowers, at least, are appreciating this," he sighed.

"We're already supposed to have flowers. The showers were last month. I _hate_ this kind of weather."

"Then why on earth are you still living here?"

The demon shrugged, shifting minutely. "Habit. And anyway there's no point in moving now." He collected himself. "Yeah, so, anyway—I was thinking that maybe we should rethink this whole delegation of godfatherly duty thing."

"What? Why? I'd thought it was working marvelously."

"Yes, it is, which is the problem. It's working _too_ marvelously."

"Oh, honestly, Crowley, how can you possibly tell at such a young age?"

"I, unlike you, visit the Great Beast That Is Called Dragon sometimes. (Although I of course understand that you must guard your books at all times from deranged Bible thumpers.) And I see what's going on. It's in the details, so _I'd_ know, I should think."

"My dear Crowley, are you implying that not all Bible thumpers are deranged?"

"I'm implying that anybody who owns as many Bibles at you do has got to be deranged. Now can we please talk business?"

"Oh, I'm sick of talking business with you." He watched London race by them, damp and bustling, the tour bus passing through pockets of lukewarm amid the spring city-chill. It went by fast; the angel stared at a blur. "It's mostly all that we do, you know."

"This isn't _Their_ business," Crowley said shortly.

"Fine."

"Now, I really don't want to break off this new arrangement or anything, Aziraphale, but I think a little _less_ influence might make the kid turn out better. Putting him smack in the middle of a tug-of-war between heaven, hell, right, and wrong might not be the best idea."

"Ah. I see. And what is it, do you propose, that _humans_ endure?"

". . . You do have a point, there," he admitted.

"It's going very smoothly, my dear," Aziraphale soothed. "Which doesn't often happen, so I can understand your concern, but do try and calm down. It _could_ actually work." _Because it has to._ Simple, really.

"I'm just saying we're supposed to be working together on this! Doesn't my opin—don't my observations count at all? Well? How are you not stressing over this?"

A pair of German tourists burst into laughter, presumably at something the automated commentary had said, or else the Tower of London was funnier than Aziraphale had originally thought. There were so many humans.

"I talk to Francis often enough," said Aziraphale evenly. "He says that Warlock is a perfect little ang—well, boy. He tells me what he's tended in the Attaché's garden that day, and then we usually go in for a cup of tea and a more detailed report, including the progress of the opposition." He stared up at Crowley with his eyes again, as he had in the shop, knowing it got the demon's attention. "I am doing my part. Your team appears to be doing yours. Now we're supposed to race along and keep tally on the little boy, yes?" Aziraphale took a breath and smiled. "Not so unlike the old days, is it?" he said ruefully.

"Do you know," said Crowley, who was remembering Aziraphale _was_ to be reckoned with, always(2), "I may as well not be here. I'm just plain unnecessary when you're as wily as—if not more wily than me."

"Is that—"

"And I won't even get into wiling and thwarting yourself into cancellation."

"And _I_ shall simply refrain from mentioning the spark of good—"

"There's a spot of wickedness in _you_. Oh, deep down, I mean. Of course." Crowley grinned. He was in a much better mood, now. Which was not always good considering the kinds of things his moods revolved around.

"Hm."

Aziraphale's attention danced around the top of the bus.(3) All of them, isolated on a shiny red island with cheerful humans painted on its side to be happy for them. An old Asian woman a few rows ahead seemed to have fallen asleep. She was here to sight-see, wasn't she? She could at least _pretend_ to memorise the foreign city landscape, pretend to find it remarkable. It wasn't, but her disregard rubbed Aziraphale the wrong way. Sometimes it seemed impossible for humans to enjoy Earth as keenly as he did. All he did was watch them not enjoy it and try to prod them toward the appreciation of _Something_, at least, as he seemed generally unable to spark in them an appetite for existence in itself.

He and Crowley did have to work together—he oughtn't let the demon get to him quite so much or they'd end up discorporating one another and thereby condemning the world to its regularly scheduled Doom. He resolved to let what Crowley had said slide. "O wonderful, when devils tell the truth . . ." Aziraphale lamented.

"More wonderful, when angels are so angry," Crowley returned slyly.

". . . I suppose I should've guessed you'd have that memorised."

Crowley opened his palms. "What can I say? Leave me unattended in your shop and this sort of thing is bound to happen."

"Then I won't be doing so in the future."

"Oh, attend me, Aziraphale. Please do . . ."

In the front of the tour bus, the baby wailed. It wasn't especially heart-rending, except in the sense of, 'Ow, my God, a cranky child destroys my eardrums and my sanity.' Crowley made a face that illustrated this thought.

"Ow, my—"

"I quite agree. Why don't you quiet him down, then?"

"Why don't you?"

"Crowley, I can't go around getting noticed. This isn't exactly a routine smiting, you know."

"Is that why you always make _me_ do the miracling? You're really afraid of being noticed?" Crowley snorted. "You'll forgive my saying so, but that's the least of your worries, Aziraphale. And if this isn't a routine smiting then what is it, exactly, hm? An off-the-books smiting? What does _that_ involve, and, more importantly, when were you going to start doing it? I should remind you we're in public."

"Crowley." His voice was clear and dripped a very exasperated '_typical_'. But Crowley noted his telltale blush. Aziraphale noted it himself, and he also noted that Crowley noted. He didn't hate what Crowley brought out in him (although he probably should have), only that Cro_w_ley brought it out in the first place. "I am an angel. Angels can't go dishing out miracles willy-nilly. We're—angels are selfless. Er."

"Yeah, fine, fine." The demon waved the Antichrist into contented infantile sleep. The fact stuck a chord with Aziraphale, but one that resolved as quickly as it had sounded. Waved _the Antichrist_ to sleep . . .

"I'm not surprised Gabriel keeps all the miracles to himself, though," Crowley remarked. "And I still don't see why one little thing is such a big deal. Obviously conducting a resurrection might draw some attention, yeah, but for someone's sake, who cares about one little thing? Why should _they_ care, even? Come on, Aziraphale, if you look at it—"

"Please stop."

Crowley looked at him in surprise. "I was just—"

"You _were_ just. That's the problem, Crowley, I—" Aziraphale sighed. "You have no idea how difficult it is."

"Well, you're right about that. Don't particularly want to, either."

"And you, you can go abracadabring infinitely without worrying. Without having to keep track." _Nowhere left to fall, really._ "Like a credit card that doesn't max out."

Crowley's eyebrows shot up. "Do my ears deceive me? Was that a pop culture reference? And to think I didn't believe the End of Days approacheth-eth. -Ed."

"Hardly popular culture, my dear." He smiled and the urgency lacing knots in his stomach vanished. Crowley was so very talented at leading Aziraphale away from distasteful topics. The angel was on to him, of course, but the demon _was_ a master tempter—one might almost say the veritable _author_ of temptation. There'd been times in the past when Aziraphale had suspected Crowley had him hypnotised. Now, however, he _knows_ it. And it's not so much a question of when the demon will finally strike, but of how. Aziraphale finds himself looking forward to it.

Today, however, Aziraphale won't be deterred. There were only so many idle hours on buses in the almost-rain coming from the next few—last few—years. He took a deep breath.

"Anyway, it has to be easier than acting as though there's nothing wrong. At least with your people—with, well, Below, and you all being what you . . . at least it _is_ wrong and everybody knows it and can admit it, right?"

"Well, angel, you _don't_ really know what it's like, do you?" he said, and fell silent.

Misty rain sweated on the seats. When Aziraphale leaned back he knew he was making his jacket wet. This was the only sound, the only presence between excited jabbering from the tourists. But then Warlock woke again, and continued his wailing precisely where he had left off. Aziraphale was sure Crowley had done it, and that feeling of wrongness returned—_How . . . the Antichrist?_—and vanished.

Aziraphale's nose twitched. Not a moment later, the boy had ceased his cries.

Crowley smiled to himself. He could have said a lot of things, but he chose: "You are emphatically not a witch, Aziraphale."

"What?"

-----

1. Because it had been Aziraphale. But Aziraphale had never gotten around to telling Crowley—he would undoubtedly be referred to thereafter as "Aziraphale the Baptist" if Crowley knew. And the dear boy had never precisely _asked_.

2. It was unsettlingly difficult to remember.

3. Which was considerably larger than the head of a pin.

-----

Not so very far away, another child was finally being taken to a church. What appeared to be his mother had been very busy employing all sorts of tips about newborns she'd picked up in magazines, and just hadn't gotten _around_ to it. But what appeared to be the child's grandparents insisted, and his mother didn't see the harm in it, anyway.

Little Adam Young, however, wasn't keen on all that water, and it's uncertain whether or not the vicar remembered to bless it before the baptism. Or if it touched the child at all.

-----


	2. II Lullaby

Title: Firebird: II. Lullaby

Rating: PG-13 (for American youths)

Summary: "In the background Crowley and Aziraphale met on the tops of buses, and in art galleries, and at concerts, compared notes, and smiled."

Disclaimer: --

Author's Notes: This chapter is heavily artsy. Sadly, I am not an art expert, however many museums I delight in. Yes, it's true, I've read things online about art, instead. Horrible, I know, but there you are.

Crowley wanted to die.

As neither of them was willing to venture American wine, Aziraphale instead asked of the peppy be-aproned waitress, "Could we perhaps see the, uh . . . carbonated nonalcoholic beverage . . . list?"

The demon sighed. He planted an image of what Aziraphale wanted in the girl's head.

"Oh, sure!" she spouted, suspiciously undeterred. "We've got Coke, Pepsi, Diet Coke, Sierra Mist, 7-Up, Diet Pepsi, Slice, Diet 7-UP, Cherry Coke, _Black_ Cherry Coke, Diet Black Cherry Coke, Diet Black Cherry Vanilla Coke, um, Iced Tea (Lemon and Raspberry), Root Beer, _Diet_ Root Beer—!"

"Oh that sounds lovely thank you," Aziraphale beamed hastily.

"'Kay!" She beamed back with exuberance. Crowley thought he threw up a little.

"Does that, ah, come in a bottle?"

". . . Yes!"

"_Oh_," the angel enunciated. "Well, in that case, some tea would be perfectly serviceable." He smiled his most polite, insincere restaurant smile. These smiles take a very particular, experienced patience to really pull off, and Aziraphale had mastered the art.

Crowley watched his disdain from across the table. Not averting his eyes(1), he said, "Well, _I'll_ have root beer, anyway. Thanks." Alcohol really wasn't the wisest of ideas as it would undoubtedly necessitate sobering up, knowing them, and it wouldn't do to attract any extra attention, considering what they were doing here.

After the waitress had gone, Aziraphale turned to him, vaguely expectant.

"You know," said Crowley confidingly, "I don't think Americans are so hopelessly classless they wouldn't provide you with a _glass_."

"Hm." Aziraphale didn't buy it. "I was simply of a mind to have tea."

They became briefly engrossed in the gooey-looking muffins on the table, spreading butter and arranging and rearranging plates. The tables were close in the corner grill on Columbus, but it wasn't uncomfortable. And, even if it had been, they were used to ignoring humans. A reassuring roar of laughter from the bar upped the volume level enough for Crowley to feel comfortable with conversation again. "Young Warlock is certainly growing up," he observed softly.

"_Yes_." Aziraphale scooted forward, wiped his lips with his napkin. Ready for conversation. Crowley could interpret every move.

They only ever talked like this. _Over_ something, _at_ something.

Thank Someone.

"How old is he, now?" the angel asked. As if he didn't know, down to the day, even.

"Four." _—years, 329 days, fourteen hours_(2)

"Strange to think of the Antichrist having made it past the terrible threes."

Crowley frowned. "I thought it was the terrible twos."

"Oh, it's both, naturally. Depends on who you ask. Anyway." Aziraphale took a sip from his drink—he was disconcerted. "To all appearances, he seems remarkably well-behaved for an Antichrist."

_He was . . ._ Crowley shoved a slew of encroaching, niggling worries out of his way and ploughed on. "Yeah, well, he might not be showing his true colours, yet. He's just a kid. Kids are always happy. Ignorance is bliss, and all that."

"Crowley. He's here _visiting_ his _relatives_."

_Don't do it, don't do it, don't—_ "You're . . . you're right. He is acting strangely." That he could allow. "But do keep in mind, Aziraphale, that there isn't any real precedent for this, unless you want to count You-Know-Who, and you know I _don't_." He breathed for a moment. Out went the worrying thoughts. "Besides, isn't this what we wanted, anyway?" he wheedled. "Neutrality. It probably means your minions—"

"Aids."

"—_aids_, right—that they're doing their job, yeah? See? It's all thanks to you that the kid's so agreeable. Problem solved."

Aziraphale shook his head and placed both elbows on the table, the better to gesture with. He would not be persuaded today. "No, Crowley. It's not just that. He's not shown any particular strengths, he just isn't acting how one would expe—oh, you've already deflected all of that. Just listen, Crowley. His mother told me—"

"Wait, you _talked_ to his mother? That goes a bit beyond overseeing his religious upbringing, don't you think?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, I hypnotised her—she did tell me, though, that Warlock is . . . well, that . . . that it would take too long to explain all the nuances to you. Here: I've read all of the prophecies out there, and you know it. _None_ of them fit. Nothing, Crowley."

"Have you ever considered that they're wrong? Sheesh."

"Well, yes, I have, but there is something to be said for simple irregularities . . . anything, really, just—and events from Revelations! There are no concrete similarities _there_, and there would have to be, don't you agree?"

"There's nothing to worry about yet."

The angel just _knew_ that Crowley was lying to him about something. It was easy enough to see. If the demon wasn't lying to anyone else in the process of talking to Aziraphale, then he was lying to Aziraphale. Crowley had told him about the hospital, of course, and about the graveyard, and about the traffic on the way back to London, too. But there was something in the equation that he was reluctant to admit to. And this confidence of his—oh, Crowley was never _really_ confident—in all matters Antichrist Aziraphale didn't buy for a second. It could just be nerves, though, nervousness about what would happen if their little experiment was called abruptly to halt and the demon called abruptly home, such as it was.

The angel bit his tongue and let it slide. There _was_ time. Eleven years of life before that terribly _Something Else_ took over that child . . .

Their waitress had reappeared with their drinks. In front of Crowley she placed a brown bottle and a frosted mug.

Aziraphale regarded his own tall glass of iced tea. With a plastic straw.

Then he gazed mournfully in Crowley's direction.

"Say," said Crowley, pouring his Stewart's Root Beer(3) with unnecessary flair, "I'm thinking maybe you should've specified about the tea, huh?"

The angel only cleared his throat and sipped a suddenly stronger label lemon iced tea. Only a little miracle . . .

"Apparently they're taking him to see national parks, next," he said. "The Grand Canyon. Yellowstone."

"He won't remember it later."

"All the same," Aziraphale said.

They cast around for safe conversation, but there was none to be had. Warlock, Armageddon, and Warlock and Armageddon rather overshadowed their usual bickering. Aziraphale tried anyway.

The waitress soon returned to take their orders. Through the course of removing plates and refilling glasses, she deduced that there was only one possible explanation for such an unlikely pair to be dining together—not that there was anything wrong with that—and when, eventually, she brought them dessert and the bill, she was all smiles. And eventually she removed them from her mind entirely.

Aziraphale generally ate without speech until he felt compelled to correct something, nodding and _mm_-ing indulgently while Crowley carried doggedly on. Right now the demon was talking about some new project of his. Aziraphale didn't know what he hoped to accomplish in the remaining seven years of existence, but he wasn't about to dissuade him. And, anyway, interactive games for children sounded nice.(4)

"Sounds lovely, my dear. Are you going to eat that?"

"Of course not." He hadn't bought dessert for himself in centuries.

Aziraphale's eyes lit up. He transferred the sundae from Crowley's place to his. The zeal with which he tucked into the ice cream was far from gluttonous, Crowley thought, watching in fascination. It was really closer to lust.

"So," he said, staring steadily at a spot on the table. "What d'you think would happen if They found out?"

"I don't really think that _will_ happen, Crowley, do you? I'd thought we were being very careful indeed . . ."

"Sure, sure. But what do you think They'd do?" His voice was soft instead of sly.

The angel finally looked up. "Why, have you any reason to suspect—?"

"I was merely speculating!"

Aziraphale set his spoon down, just so, which meant, _If you continue down this path, I'll be forced to logic you to dea—that is, inconvenient discorporation._

Crowley sighed. "Well, we've checked up on Warlock. Now what? He's here for another week."

Aziraphale deliberated. "I suppose we might as well take advantage of the cultural venue. We could see an opera or a musical theatre show—"

"Nah," Crowley broke in rather forcibly, "how about we check out a museum or something?"

-----

1. A.k.a., sunglasses.

2. Okay, so he might've guesstimated the hours part.

3. A brand that is, it must be said, so delectable it's either heavenly or sinful or both. In any case, Aziraphale has definite grounds for covetousness.

4. _And_ like something Aziraphale could twist to his advantage, should Crowley's project go according to plan. In any case, Aziraphale didn't think young people were about to choose sitting before a television and some rather violent counsel over playing wholesome games outside in the fresh air, even if Aziraphale provided them with better counsel.

-----

"Do you remember when humans like that used to be considered dignified?"

"Oh, I know. It's always astonishing to think that such outlandish clothing was considered high fashion. That people actually _wore_ it."

Crowley looked the angel up and down. "I quite agree."

Aziraphale didn't register his tone, though, he was so arrested by Thomas Gainsborough's _The Mall in St. James's Park_.

"It's really not so much different there, now," said Crowley. "All that's changed is the fashion. Take these women; they all hate each other. Same as now."

The angel squinted, leaning in to study the painting, his face close to the musty, but gleaming, frame. He looked cool and pale and strangely angelic in the dimly lit old house. Crowley thought he'd gone back in time, himself. This was how everybody used to look indoors, although sometimes there were unending, fascinating candle-flickers for futilely painting faces with. Now, electricity made everybody look perfect. He liked it for the most part, but it didn't suit Aziraphale.

"Mm," said Aziraphale. "We shall have to find a print of this one. I know just the place for it."

"_Shall_ we?"

In answer, the angel tugged him into another creaky room. A white room, tiny, and its walls were lavished with childhood scenes and Crowley swore he recognised youthful versions of the lovers on random vine-swings from a previous room. Tourists were tightly-packed—there was not much of a crowd on such a dreary day, but the museum was small in comparison to the others a few frigid fall blocks away. They had had to walk too many of those already before winding through the park. And so Crowley's proposal of the pristine, modern Guggenheim was out of the question. Where this collection was housed it was terribly, terribly dusty.

The angel fit here.

But Crowley had to say his favourite part of the whole experience was the name of the collection.

"Let's do the Frick, instead. How does that sound?"

"Um. This would . . . be another museum," Crowley had ventured. _And not some disturbing dance move?_

"Well, obviously, Crowley. The Frick it is, then. It's only two blocks down once we get out of the park."

_Well, that's rather convenient for you, now, isn't it?_ he'd thought. Aziraphale _was_ the organised one.

Presently, they were in front of Vermeer's _Girl Interrupted at her Music_.

Crowley couldn't account for Vermeer's magnetism—he hadn't known the man personally, and he couldn't very well ask now—but it was subtly, definitively there.

It had all begun with _The Allegory of Faith_, he supposed, and his wanting desperately to attach post-it notes to the painstakingly preserved oil: "If you think a stone block is all it takes to kill a demon, then you are sadly mistaken," or "The Garden was sorely lacking in shiny spheres, I'm afraid," or, if he was feeling particularly unhappy, "Only angels are capable of producing such blessed idiotic expressions. Although Eve did give them a run for their money."

He wondered if Vermeer had painted anything else like that, and if it were here. They'd be checking out the more religiously themed galleries, of course, but Crowley wasn't about to protest—truth be told, he found them as irresistible/lamentable as Aziraphale did, just for different reasons(1).

"The real question is," said Aziraphale, "how is it that the artist draws us into the painting? The chair, possibly—it's as if we're being invited to sit."

They both stared importantly at the framed blobs of paint.

"No, it's 'Will she or won't she?'" Crowley studied the contents of the table. "Oh, yeah. He's got 'er now."

"I beg your pardon? That is obviously her _tutor_, my dear."

"So what? _The Taming of the Shew_, is what I always say. And, besides," he smirked, "he's got the demon drink on his side."

"You don't; you quote insults from it. But even so, she hasn't made any decision yet." He continued in a thoughtful voice, "She is obviously looking to us for guidance . . ."

"Well, fortunately we are godfathers, now, and can assist in such matters," Crowley taunted. "I say, go for it," he told the girl in the painting. "Put your money where your symbolism is. In fact, _his_ money would actually be the smarter move, and getting it up front's not a bad idea either. Well, not bad from a certain perspective."

Aziraphale smiled. "Crowley, dear, you're tempting a painting. I don't think it'll give in."

The demon turned on him. "She's feeling trapped. Window's closed, and all, see? What she really should do is get the hell away, I agree, but this might be a way out. Doing what's expected."

He blinked at the earnestness in Crowley voice. Confused, he repeated himself: "But I'm afraid you're still tempting in vain."

Crowley felt irrational frustration surge through him, and it pushed a thought out of his throat. "Maybe I should tempt you insstead?" He couldn't beat this impatience with Aziraphale—it always showed up eventually.

"Crowley . . . what? Just slow down. I'm still trying to take in the Vermeer . . ."

"Sslow down," he echoed. "I wish we could slow it down. Need more time to figure this out." He stared at his opposite number. "I think we might've sscrewed up with the boy, angel."

"Nonsense, Crowley. You said it yourself, we can't tell anything, yet." Aziraphale was looking a bit pale.

"I know, I know. But even if that does work, with Warlock, I don't believe for a minute _we're_ going to be off the hook"

Oh. "Still, though. We simply can't know that, yet. There's nothing more we can do, and there's no reason to be worrying about it. We've just got to focus on doing what we can."

"But . . . Well, yes. I supposse so." He sighed.

They were perfectly still for a full minute, both looking at the dusky wooden floor as if willing the earth below it to churn up some answers. Interruption came in the form of two teenagers who had been admiring the next painting over. Who had run into Crowley.

"Hey, watch it, kid," he snapped.

"Yeah, I'm real sorry about that, man," said the boy derisively.

"Faggot," the other one sneered.

"Um." Blink. _Um_. He collected himself. "You'd best run along, children," he intimated as dangerously as demonically possible, "because I'm afraid you are unbelievably, cossmically misstaken."

There was a darkling pause.

"Jeah, 'cause fags never lissp like thiss, huh?"

It was then that Aziraphale stepped in with embarrassing chivalry. "Excuse me, my good man, but I'm not entirely sure what you're implying."

The good man rolled his eyes. His friend spoke up. "He means you're homos, dude."

Aziraphale stared. Crowley blinked again. His sunglasses were saying, 'This, naturally, is not happening.' They boys just gave him dirty looks. Crowley stuck out his tongue at them, menacingly.

"Dude, what the hell did you do to your tongue? Gross!"

He deadpanned at them in vain until the angel mercifully led him to the next gallery.

"Honestly, I don't know what two such infernal hoodlums could find of interest at the Frick . . . no offense, my dear."

"Um."

Crowley sulked. _Nobody_ made insinuations like that about _him_, especially when Aziraphale was around. Crowley had always thought Aziraphale's, hm, personality rather overshadowed his in such matters. Or at least set off a nice contrast that threw Crowley in an attractive, ladies' man light. Not that _he_ was actually a ladies' man. Or a man at all, in point of fact.

He pulled himself together. This was silly.

"Well, it looks like the Apocalypse is upon us after all."

"Not quite."

This room had a window. Outside it had begun to rain and the already grayish city-world seemed to make that final step into absolute dreariness. Aziraphale looked at the clouds and imagined them raining down death and destruction with heavenly sunlight. How very inviting.

Where would they be, when all of this happened, anyway? Were they to nudge young Warlock forward from the sidelines and watch, crossing their fingers? Aziraphale found himself staring at a poor likeness of Christ painted in the 15th century and felt not at all comforted. He was so deeply afraid of the future that he didn't dare chance treading too closely to it in his thoughts. If he disturbed the fear, it might get loose, and this was a fear that made him sick to think about sidelong, let alone face, floating in front of him.

"Crowley . . ."

"What."

"Where do you . . . _what_ do you suppose we'll be doing when the Apocalypse really is at hand?"

"Well, that depends on how this all goes. I mean, maybe we'll have been recalled before it actually begins."

"I don't think that'll happen," said Aziraphale distantly. "I think that, either way, we'll be here, still, alongside the humans, enduring whatever they are."

"I." Crowley regarded him as though reassuring himself he was talking to the same old Aziraphale. "Actually? That makes a lot of sense." He seemed equally surprised at himself.

"So we had better get it right."

"Oh, yes."

"Yes."

"Still," said Crowley, "these past couple of thousand years have rather flown by. I mean, I had all but forgotten there even going to _be_ an Apocalypse."

". . . You do know what I do in my spare time, don't you? How many times have you been to my shop? It's filled with books of prophesy and—"

"Yeah, Bibles, I'm well aware. They used to make my eyes all itchy, you know. Don't any more, though," he reflected. "Same with you. Well, not with the itchy eyes, I mean. Just, you-know. You know what I mean."

Aziraphale considered. No, Crowley had not had filled his embarrassment quota for today; Aziraphale left him hanging.

"Well, I suppose we really should've seen it coming. Global warming and all that. I do wonder if they'll ever catch on that it _is_ happening . . ."

Crowley snorted, in his element again with cynicism. "Not much time to now, is there? And didn't we decide that it was humans' fault?"

"Oh, no. It was just Earth, actually."

"Was it? Huh. Wait—how the Starbucks do _you_ know?"

"My people sent me a memo a few decades ago. It just arrived the other day," Aziraphale explained. "Starbucks is yours?"

Crowley gave him a look over his sunglasses_. Now you're just pretending to be an idiot._

Aziraphale mimicked him. _Oh yes? Do you feel lucky? Well, do you, you—__fiend__? _

Crowley sighed dismissively. He caught some unexplored little rooms out of the corner of his eye. "Come on," he said, placing a hand on the angel's back and guiding him there.

"There will probably be an increase in natural disasters—hurricanes and things of that nature. It will certainly look Apocalyptic," Aziraphale was babbling. "I'm surprised they haven't taken the hint."

"I'm not."

-----

Or so he thought: really the two of them tended to think alike on the subject. But there wouldn't be anything to talk about if they always took the same side in a conversation.

-----


	3. III Finale

Title: Firebird: III. Finale

Rating: PG-13 (for "Why?")

Summary: "In the background Crowley and Aziraphale met on the tops of buses, and in art galleries, and at concerts, compared notes, and smiled."

Disclaimer: --

Author's Notes: The last part of this little trilogy—i.e., wherein I pimp 'Firebird' rather more forcefully than I have been through titles.

They should've seen it coming.

As the Antichrist aged, Crowley and Aziraphale became more and more reluctant to discuss his upbringing, partly because it was a subject that had been talked into tedium as the years ran out, and partly because Warlock had so far proven he was nothing more sinister than a typical spoiled American brat.

"He just needs time to grow," Aziraphale had said doubtfully as a six-year-old Warlock stalked ducks in the park, sinking them with real stones and astonishing accuracy. Crowley swore up and down that he had nothing to do with it but smirked all the same. And when an eight-year-old Warlock could be found working studiously in Sunday school, Crowley continued to smirk, bemusing an Aziraphale who hadn't looked close enough to see what remarks about the instructor Warlock delighted in writing to his friends, and utilising such a vibrant vocabulary, too . . .

All of this seemed proof enough of his lineage, if either of his godfathers were still harbouring subconscious doubts. Aziraphale, for his part, had long ago concluded that God was working in mysterious ways on this one, or was it Satan . . . ?

So, Warlock's attitude shouldn't have surprised them.

"Warlock! My, how you've grown—"

"Yes, wonderful. Hello, Warlock. What's up?" said the stranger. "You wouldn't mind hanging out with us for a little while, would you." The man was oddly persuasive. "We've been admiring you from afar, as it were. Man, when I was a kid, I didn't possess nearly this level of maturity. And, uh, _coolness_. In fact, when I was a kid all I did was get pushed around by loads of poncy idiots. But I'm my own boss, now. I could . . . assist you in something similar if you'd simply—" His friend nudged him, glaring. The man glared right back (one assumed—he wore stupidly dark sunglasses).

"My associate here's getting impatient," he intimated. "We've been sort of keeping tabs on your progress, having been around here most of your life—you know, furthering a healthy symbiotic relationship between two great countries, leaders of the free world, inventors of McDonalds, all that jazz—"

Warlock chewed his banana-flavoured gum thoughtfully. These grown-ups were _very_ uncool. He had an image to maintain among his older friends (one of whom was ten _and a half_) and it didn't include a man who was undoubtedly composed of dust—motes gathered around his long-outdated hair and caught the light—and his friend who embodied the words 'shiny' and 'black'. "Why?" he said.

"Why what?" said the shiny black one, obviously trying not to sound irritated, which only made him sound _especially_ irritated.

"Not s'pose ta talk to strangers. Duh."

"I work with your dad," said Crowley.(1)

"So what? I dunno you."

"Well, I know you."

"Why?"

"As I said, I work with your father. However, my associate and I are far more impressed with _your_ collective skills, Mr. Dowling, and may just have a propo—"

"Why?"

Crowley glared. "Because . . . they're impressive. . . . Duh."

Warlock folded his arms in a rather conceited way. He nodded as if at some trivial information being recited at him by a secretary—a very serious sort of nod, and his brow took on the frown of weighty decision-making. He'd picked all of this up from his father. "Why?" he asked in an eloquent tone. The effect was ruined by his little boy's voice.

Crowley drew in oxygen. It didn't help him think more clearly. "How should I know? Now, kid, listen, all we need is for you to talk about yourself, and then we'll be out of your hair, I promise. Shouldn't be very hard for _you_," he sneered. "What do you do for fun, Warlock? Come on."

"For fun? _What_?"

"You know! Fun. Past-times, hobbies . . . like, sports, music, politics, um, tattooing your friend's foreheads and possibly their right hands—"

"Why?"

Crowley gritted his teeth. "—being an insufferable, infernal little bastard, that sort of thing."

Warlock smirked, very slightly. "Why?" he repeated innocently.

"Aziraphale. You." Crowley waved him toward Warlock.

Aziraphale's hand was at his mouth, whether to hide his indignation at Warlock's behaviour or to hide his grin at Crowley's only God knew. He adopted a kind smile for the boy. They hadn't tried to hypnotise him or anything similar, deciding he would probably be able to deflect it unknowingly, although the way this conversation was going they probably _would_ do well to try erasing his memory. Nevertheless, Aziraphale wanted to make a good impression on the Antichrist.(2) He hadn't actually met him face to face before.

"As I understand it, Warlock, you've shown exemplary aptitude in your arithmetic studies, and—"

"What're _you_ supposed to be, then? And what the hell did you just say?"

"Why, I was merely inquiring after—"

"Why?"

Aziraphale smiled tightly. "Why not?"

"Yeah, whatever. Why don't you guys just scram, 'kay? You're camping on my style."

"Now, see here, young man—"

"Why?"

"Because . . ."

"Because Aziraphale here is an enormous git," said Crowley, who had just caught inspiration.

"I do kinda agree with you on that," Warlock conceded after a moment.

"Excellent," Crowley grinned. "So why all the fuss? We're not trying to make you do your homework or anything--"

"Why not? Everybody else does," he said sulkily.

"Listen, kid," Crowley said, holding up a sizeable wad of bills, produced seemingly from nowhere, "do you want that new comic book or not?"

But Warlock was unimpressed. His parents generally got him whatever he wanted, as soon as their personal assistants read them their memos. He thought these grown-ups were truly pathetic for even trying that angle.

"Yeah, so it's not the nicest bribe. I admit it." Crowley crouched down to the boy's level and said conspiratorially, "I can show you how to make them get you something better."

Warlock raised an eyebrow. He was listening, though.

"Crowley," Aziraphale warned.

Crowley stood up. He snapped and Warlock was frozen in his contemplation. "Yeah, I know. This isn't working, anyway. Why can we never make anything bloody _work_ with this boy?" He sighed again, absorbed in agitated thoughts. He looked up at Aziraphale abruptly, "Can you . . . ?"

The angel nodded and turned to Warlock. "I'd let you dream about whatever you like best, but I'm afraid of what that might be," he sighed.

-----

1. This was actually true. Aziraphale had started to fight Crowley on this, but soon realised that an American diplomat was not worth the effort. Most people remotely involved with politics across the pond tended to be Crowley's side's no matter who interfered.

2. It _really_ couldn't hurt.

-----

Guitars screamed out _Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony_ in the Bentley. A darkening London flitted past and Aziraphale carefully avoided looking out the side windows to keep himself from getting carsick. Crowley tapped the wheel in time to the song and seemed to have forgotten all about the angel's presence.

Working with Crowley like this wasn't filling in on small-scale temptations for convenience. It was, in all probability, treason. For Crowley it certainly was, no matter how glibly he reassured that it was a demon's very nature to rebel, and how could They blame him? A grin would creep up during this argument and pointedly not turn wry or bitter or scared. Working _with_ Crowley was not working at the same office, or maintaining a truce, or just filling in here and there. _Alongside_ wasn't the same as _beside_.

It . . . wasn't _treason_ for Aziraphale, but he nevertheless instinctively feared being found out.

"We might be a little late," Crowley said suddenly, eyes still caught up in the road ahead.

He turned a sharp corner and cut off Aziraphale's mechanical reply. The angel closed his mouth. It hadn't mattered, but he dwelt on it absurdly.

"It's a good thing we talked to him," said Aziraphale, but it was weak and he knew it.

Crowley said, "Mm-nm," anyway, seeming too loud.

"Good to know what we'll be dealing with. If it comes to that."

"Mm. I guess."

"Do you. Do you suppose there's any reason to keep checking up on Wa—"

"We're here."

As they walked from the perfect parking space to Barbican Hall, Aziraphale noted exactly eleven diabolical things that were Crowley's doing. He wished people would stop blaming everything on God. Eventually they had to discover it was mostly Crowley, right? One hoped. He was sick of being caught in the middle.

They were becoming so accustomed to glowing extravagant hallways that Aziraphale didn't even say stupidly that it was just _lovely_. Crowley shouldn't have been disappointed by this.

The demon sniffed. "Smells funny in here," he commented, words flickering in his breath—they were walking briskly and the lights were pulsing for the final time.

"Incense, I believe." Aziraphale sniffed at the air. "I think it's nice."

Outside it was beginning to storm, the unpredictable kind of wintry storm that slipped down between perpetual, mashed up wintry clouds. It could have happened at any time. Lightning was as yet far off, but the air was grumbling in discontent, growling and threatening and promising rain. The stage was set and ready to be melted by a downpour.

Inside it was slightly too warm, although not oppressively humid. Crowley still regretted his suit jacket, but he wouldn't look right without it, and so he braced himself for a night of mild discomfort. Snake or not, there was such a thing as too much heat. Crowley should know, although he didn't think about why.

Their seats were happily not the cramped seats of the last row, but the cramped seats of the _second_ to last row. Aziraphale used to strongly imply that the private boxes were no different from any other seats, and so Crowley had bought box tickets in the past. But they'd been to so many concerts here that they'd begun experimenting. Crowley had long ago discovered that one could see the entire orchestra from a seat far in the back, nothing but feet from the supposedly ideal front and centre seats, and nothing but the tops of heads from a balcony. The acoustics tended to be better in the back, too, Crowley thought.

He heard the principal trumpet playing a very obvious lick from the suite they'd come to hear, and groaned. It spoiled the surprise. There was something wonderful about remembering a well-loved piece only when hearing it. Suddenly the aforementioned trumpet seemed to backfire and the music ceased. The trumpet player looked at his horn in surprise, testing valves. The second tried to suppress a smirk and concentrated on flourishing up to the same lick with merciless clarity. Crowley looked at Aziraphale.

"Well, you have to agree it was annoying."

"I most certainly don't. You're encouraging strife between the brass players."

"Yes. And?"

"Why?"

"It's not much of a challenge with string players? Come on, Aziraphale," Crowley grinned. Sometimes he really did want to let the angel in on the joke. It got tiresome letting them fly over his head and feigning annoyance.(1)

Aziraphale went back to perusing his programme. Crowley was fairly certain they collectively had more first-hand knowledge of Stravinsky than the little glossy biography did.

Crowley gave up on him and looked around. The wide range of interpretations of appropriate concert dress was staggering. He could very clearly see a woman in the most outlandish descendant of a real ball gown he'd seen in years sitting next to a man in honest to goodness overalls. He couldn't believe people didn't think there were distinct, sneering-down-at-you classes anymore, in This Enlightened Age. Crowley knew the world never really changed, although it did switch colour schemes every couple of decades. It wasn't very hard to figure out.

Crowley didn't have perfect pitch(2), but he could nevertheless pick out an oboe testing an A quite easily. The stage was suddenly nearly full and he watched the curtain where it concealed a door.

When the conductor appeared Aziraphale joined in the applause, then stopped surreptitiously when he noticed Crowley's hands were motionless in his lap.

"Saving it for a standing ovation, are you?" Aziraphale was trying not to be awkward. Crowley tried not to laugh.

"Sure, why not."

Crowley rarely clapped. And he didn't know why people felt silence was expected of them during tuning. He remembered the days when people knew concerts were for socialising and critiquing the music.

"I don't believe I've ever actually heard this in concert," Aziraphale tried.

"It's always better in concert," Crowley said. "And you love Russian music."

"No I don't. It's too brazen, most of it. I would think you'd know my tastes after so long, my dear."

"Whereas Elgar isn't brazen in the least."

"Oh, do stop tormenting poor Elgar. I am beginning to suspect you had some personal grudge with him. Did you? Really, you do torment him awfully."

"I suppose I think it's only fair seeing as his music torments not only myself, but millions of innocent, graduating young people every year. Besides, he's missing out on torture Up There, I expect."

Aziraphale let loose a little laugh. It was disquieting in the silence that followed, so Crowley quickly pushed on:

"Anyway, Tchaikovsky was Russian, angel."

"Oh, really. You claim to be such a musical connoisseur—Piotr was rather more _Western_ than some others I could name. Also, consonant." He gestured at the blipping woodwinds they were being treated to. (The concert had already begun, but Crowley thought of concerts as background music until the exciting bits rolled around. Besides, there wasn't anybody who could hear—or, indeed, notice—them, and so Aziraphale would never object to conversation.)

"I'm just being difficult," Crowley said wearily. He really was sick of misunderstandings and meanness. "I know Russian music is more my scene."

"It's just so often _sad_," Aziraphale continued, "Russian music is. Well, _minor_ is what I meant. It can be so depressing—grandly, boldly depressing."

Crowley knew that, of course. Sad things made him feel better. He felt it was a more intellectual antidote for depression than happy things—nothing gold could stay. When disheartened, Aziraphale was drawn to happiness as though he thirsted for it, but Crowley just looked around him and tried to count himself lucky over others. He _was_ lucky, too.

"Anyway," Crowley pressed, "I didn't actually hear this suite until after the war. It was a bit of a tonal shock after being acquainted with the Stravinsky we all know and love."

The woodwinds were still running from one another, despite getting more and more tangled in the process.

"This one, you mean."

"Yes. But he used to be like this—oh, wait, there's another phrase . . . like . . . _this_," he said as the first real melody of the piece was swayed into being.

"And then he went crazy."

Crowley nodded. "And then he went crazy. _And_, "—he shifted around in his seat to feel more knowledgeable—"do you know, I don't think _The Rite of Spring_ is performed live very often even _today_, let alone back then."

Aziraphale broke into a smile. "You certainly have warmed up to Igor since the premiere of _that_."

Crowley shrugged. "I had an epiphany. Stravinsky was in a whole other ballgame in a whole other ballpark years in the future where the teams are comprised of aliens."

It got him another smile.

They listened to the music for awhile. Concerts were always oversaturated colour to watch, and Crowley let himself wallow in the black and white people playing instruments from brown to yellow to practically red. His eyes hurt from staring at the bright stage, from the rippling flashes of flutes and the rainbow-gold projections of the brass on the walls. More than anything it made him want to close his eyes, and was entirely separate from the actual music. So he slouched comfortably in his chair and did just that.

"And you know what else?" He sounded lazy and drunk; he was. "These stupid traditions are so stupid. Seriously, why are these musicians still stuck in the nineteenth century?"

"What exactly are you referring to, dear boy?"

"You know!" He waved his hand around vaguely. "The black. They all wear all black, and then there's the standing up for the conductor and the tuning and the stupid concertmaster. The black makes them look bloody gothic—I just don't understand it. Stupid. I dunno, it's just so strict and unspoken and snobby. Pisses me off."

"Well, whether it does or not, I'd appreciate it if you didn't start snapping their clothes into the colours you'd prefer."

Crowley opened his eyes. "Ooh, I hadn't actually thought of that. Thanks, Aziraphale—"

"By and large, my dear, tradition is quite a powerful thing."

"Uh, no it isn't," Crowley said. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Look, I'm sure we talked about this once. It's the threat of change that's powerful, you see? The actual stupid traditions themselves mean nothing unless they're taken away. You know people, they _hate_ change."

"Just because we talked about it doesn't mean I ever agreed with you."

_. . . do as adversaries do in law/ Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends. _

It wasn't exactly an insult, but it _was_ from _The Taming of the Shrew_.(3)

They listened to the music again. It was very pretty, but the edge of melancholy was beginning to affect Crowley, so he opened his mouth to block it out with words again—

"This is quite lovely, isn't it?" Aziraphale was saying quietly.

". . . Yeah. Well, of course it is."

"It's . . . not like the music Upstairs. It'll be difficult—well, impossible—to find things like this. Any things, really. No wonderful ambiguous books. No people."

Crowley blinked somewhat comically at him. "Um, yeah. But there _will_ be people, Aziraphale."

"Yes . . ."

Crowley didn't like the dreamy timbre to Aziraphale's voice. He needed to snap him out of it. "Why don't _you_ write a book, anyway?" And his heart raced as he said it, not because it was terribly forward but because it was something he'd wanted to know ever since people started writing books.

"What do you propose I write about?" He still sounded far away.

"For someone's sake, what _couldn't_ you write about? Write about the Garden, or Babylon, or Rome, or _England_. Do a history of England, I dunno. Write about me and my wily ways. Write about the Apocalypse. Write about Warlock."

Aziraphale laughed lightly to himself. "Of course you're right. This whole debacle would make a wonderful book. I'm sure I could scribble a chapter or two at least about his holiday in Yellowstone."

Crowley usually tried _not_ to remember Warlock's trip Out West, but Aziraphale had a way of bringing up things he tried to forget about. Crowley said, "I shouldn't include the bit about that kid who ran into the hot springs, though."

Aziraphale sighed.

"Still, Warlock's grandparents' dog leaping out of the car and into the Grand Canyon could be amusing if you went about it the right way." Crowley thought it was amusing in any way.

"On second thought, I have no real desire to relive my experiences in the Great American West, especially all of that camping."

Truly, Crowley couldn't recall another time Aziraphale had been so close to nature. What had the angel done before running water and tea and takeout he really didn't know.

"He really has turned out rather horribly," Aziraphale stated, staring at the stage.

Crowley knew who Aziraphale was talking about. He hung metaphorically back, waiting for the next move. The angel seemed frustrated with him for giving him space and shifted the stare to Crowley's face expectantly.

The demon considered being consoling for all of three seconds. "If we'd spent more time with him ourselves instead of hiring surrogates, perhaps," he said ruefully, still wary.

Aziraphale created a silence that pressed. He didn't want to say what he was about to say. "I went against Heaven, and what I went against them to do has probably failed. It's not as though they won't know. What am I . . . to _say_ to them? I."

"What am I supposed to say to Hell?" Crowley said reasonably. "I don't think they're going to be especially pleased with me, either."

"I don't want things to change. The whole world." He looked dangerously close to blurting nonsense.

"Yes." Crowley stilled Aziraphale's shivering hand with his own, which was exactly as unstable. Grappling for another weak thing shouldn't strengthen him, but so many illusions had built up over centuries that it did. "Maybe it's not entirely hopeless."

"Crowley, we," he studied their hands, ". . . have to do something. Else. We have to—"

"Yes."

They both jumped at the orchestra hit that sliced through the air, a piercing piccolo topping it off whitely. The dark energy the music had evolved into demanded full attention. They couldn't have heard one another anyway. Crowley clasped his hands together in his lap, absently stroking them to coax them into behaving. This was _Danse infernale_. When Crowley closed his eyes he could see it: sick phrases, burning to death, speeding, speeding; beautiful flights sneaking through them, around them, looping and sliding through little openings that were slick with blood and badness; thick surges of terror popping up to surprise them, so much was impending. But for all its haphazardness it remained very structured underneath. A flight that fled from itself into other blocks of sound that don't let anybody at all through. And then it was waves crashing against barriers, and then it was barriers collapsing forever but killing as they did. An oboe survived and lamented all of the silenced voices. Crowley's hands were cold.

-----

1. All right, so he wasn't _always_ only feigning annoyance. Aziraphale could be amazingly exasperating.

2. Although Aziraphale did, which pissed Crowley off quite a lot as the angel never took advantage of the fact.

3. For the record, Crowley thought it was ridiculous that he could remember past conversations with the angel in such detail.

-----

The bassoon took over. Crowley felt Aziraphale relax, so he forced himself to follow suit. He found himself lulled by the pendulum of the music easily enough, now. Enough to start sculpting it to his liking.

And so the orchestra executed a massive collective ritardando about halfway through _Berceuse_.

"Crowely," Aziraphale admonished.

"They're not playing it at the right tempo." Crowley had had thousands of years to pick up thousands of hobbies. Music thankfully hadn't ever gone out of date. "I don't like this oboist's vibrato, either," he added, and fixed that too, muttering, "You're not a bloody flute, pal."

Aziraphale was used to this, and generally let Crowley mold the orchestra to his liking—conductors didn't exist in Crowley's world—that is, of course, unless the angel disagreed.

"If they drag out this part, it'll seem silly when they actually do _ritard_ at the very end. It won't be as powerful."

"Nah." Crowley liked milking chords for all they were worth. Especially with Stravinsky. He'd known ever since Paris that Stravinsky chords were worth examining closely and relishing.

Aziraphale examined _him_—Crowley, who was a study in shadows. They lifted around his face to let his eyes surprise, they closed in around his body and hugged him close like dark wings. People would say that other, sleeping people looked angelic, but Aziraphale had seen Crowley asleep enough times to know he looked nowhere near angelic and mostly just like Crowley frowning, breathing through his mouth so he drooled slightly, throwing his arms about at random. Always restless. Aziraphale couldn't decide whether music aggravated or soothed him. It animated him better than wine or anger ever did.

Crowley felt eyes on him. Aziraphale had keen little eyes that alerted you to his presence and seemed to overcompensate for his unmemorable earth-toned clothes. He purposely fastened his own eyes on the conductor and didn't move even when he heard the angel's expression change.

"Maybe," Aziraphale began, startling amid the hushed high progressions, "if we . . . eliminated the boy."

"Wouldn't work," Crowley whispered, pretending to be preoccupied by chords.

"If we just pretended we didn't know. Any of it."

Crowley shook his head.

Aziraphale stared into his lap and drew in breath. Crowley watched peripherally.

The angel's words were the utmost _pianissimo_ and slid down strings like he was slipping on ice. "I simply don't know what I will do. I can't talk to dead humans or angels who are more or less dead. You've always been alive. You remind me of life when I forget about it. You tempt me. Thank God. You made me fall in love with the world, too. You dragged me into it. I fell with you, and I . . ."

"Not at all," Crowley said, suddenly feeling urgent. "It's not that at all."

"Crowley, I—"

"_No_. Wait. No, you see, _I_—" The music had long since got caught on what emotions he possessed and was dragging him along with it. He followed gratefully.

Wait. It's _not_ that I love you. It's so much more than that,

so Crowley leaned in and, amid the tremolo, kissed him. Aziraphale made a noise exactly where the harp could have sounded again. The hush of the music was strangely crushing and Crowley leaned into that, too. It was a deep and soundless kiss, but one that ended. It was strange in that it wasn't strange, the way they never talked about it, later. It seemed perfectly natural to pretend nothing had ever happened, and after a time it felt as though that was the truth. Still, they saw one another more often afterwards, and Crowley swallowed insults sometimes no matter the temptation, and sometimes they held hands briefly or leaned on one another.

Crowley hovered for too long where lips clung and they were breathing on each other and he knew somewhere in his mind that there had been an instance of Aziraphale's mouth and his, but couldn't pull up details about how long or how much or how. And soon he'd withdrawn to his own personal bubble without remembering how he'd gotten there.

The lullaby tapered off and a horn demanded their attention. Crowley could sense them both facing it and trying to feel things at one another through it, like looking together in a mirror.

Golden screens of melody built unbearably, unbearably, and the _ritardando_ sucked everything out of every person there and repainted what life was back at them.

It was a better sort of completion than any that _could_ have happened. It was the best finale, the best hopecelebrationgoodbye to Everything he had ever heard, but—

—he saw Aziraphale, just as enthralled, who was looking at him through the orchestra—

maybe the world would get its rebirth. The whole world.

-----

Adam had never been to London. He liked things as they were in Tadfield, thank you very much, but his parents were very enthusiastic about his seeing the sites. Adam had in fact been lured with the promise of ice cream.

They were in a park called St. James' and Adam was licking a vanilla ice cream that tasted much like Tadfield vanilla ice cream. It would probably have been a little cold for ice cream, but today was warmer than winter days had any business being. He was staring at ducks squawking about the pond. His parents murmured on a bench behind him, and he could tell they were talking about him, about going places as a family more often or something.

_Quack! Quack!!_

_Plop._

The other ducks swam away rather frantically. The one that had sunk without warning bobbed up to the surface again. Adam half-expected a halo of stars to appear around its head.

"Pretty cool, huh? I nailed that one! Here, you wanna try?" The other boy held out a painstakingly chosen duck-dunking stone.

Adam tried to mask his horror. "What's the matter? You can't _skip_ stones?"

The other boy frowned. "Yeah, I can! I'm really good," he said defensively.

"I can skip a stone loads of times. I skipped one ten times, once."

"Yeah right," said the other boy. "Go ahead, show me."

"Oh, I don't feel like doing it right now," Adam said loftily. "And besides, there aren't any good skipping stones in this boring old park."

"Just who are you, anyway?"

"I'm Adam Young." He said it like the name meant something to anybody who was anybody.

"Well, Adam Young, my name is Warlock. I live here, but my family's really from America, and I get to see important diplomas all the time. I even saw the Queen once."

"Everybody knows what the Queen looks like, that's no big deal," Adam said dismissively. "Did you met Oprah?"

"What? No. Why do you think I'd know her?"

"Well, _I_ don't know. You're the one who said you were American. I thought all famous people knew her. I thought you said you saw important people all the time."

"What's your problem?" Warlock demanded.

What Warlock was looking at should be described at this point. He didn't like what he saw. Adam was very much like him, curly blonde hair and grey eyes, carrying an undeniable presence wherever he went. They both stuck out. But Warlock was at the moment experiencing a sinking feeling that _he_ stuck out in a bad, distasteful sort of way, while Adam was a boy who other boys aspired to. He had no doubt that Adam was better at skipping stones than Warlock was, no matter how obviously he had been bragging—there was a definite Something behind Adam's confidence that made what he said simply true.

They observed the ducks together—ducks that weren't much different from Tadfield ducks, Adam noted. He was secretly a bit crestfallen that London wasn't, on the whole, any better than his hometown. He had somehow expected an overall improvement, like it was a movie. Actually, Tadfield seemed rather nicer than London was turning out to be.

"Is the weather always so bad here?" asked Adam, seemingly ignoring any hard feelings in favour of small talk.

Warlock gaped a little. The weather in London was _never_ quite as . . . colourful was it was today. The sky was the bluest blue, the grass, where it peeked through the tastefully arranged, sparse fallen leaves, was unnaturally green (although that could just have been due to the rain from the night before), the breeze just perfect, the mud around the pond just perfect . . . Warlock opted to change the subject.

"So where are you from?"

"Tadfield. I haven't been to the city before. It's kind of nice, but I like the quarry by my house better. Me and my friends have a lot of fun there. There's too many grown-ups around, here. I don't expect they like seeing a bunch of dirty troublemakers running around on the sidewalks. It's really a lot more fun in Tadfield."

"I dunno," Warlock said. "I don't really have a favourite place. The whole world is so messed up." Warlock really did know a thing or two about how messed up it was. At least, his mother would resort to phrases like, _What is the world coming to? _ and _How awful! Why can't we all just get along?_ at the dinner table.(1)

It was Adam's turn to gape. "What are you getting at? I find the world pretty interestin', myself. Don't you wanna go exploring to find the Fountain of Youth? Or rescue the Princess? Or stick it to the Man?"

Warlock laughed and shook his head, a true miniature cosmopolitan in his T-shirt and unlaced trainers. "You need to get out more, Adam Young. There's not that much worth seeing. Take it from me—I've been all over the place, and it's all the same, just with different languages. People are always trying to get the better of other people. It's really boring."

Adam considered this. "No, I still think you're wrong," he said decisively.

Warlock shrugged. "Whatever. I've gotta go. Have fun sight-seeing. You should go check out the Tower of London, it's pretty wicked."

Adam certainly planned to. Did this boy think he was a complete idiot? He'd done his research.(2)

The ducks were edging back into what was their customary cove. Even though Adam didn't _look_ like the human-like beings who usually provided them with a veritable bread crust smorgasbord, he felt similar. They looked up at him hopefully.

Luckily, Adam had a cookie he'd bitten into and discovered to be a regrettable oatmeal in his pocket. He crumbled it up and tried to distribute it evenly among the ducks.

Adam didn't think Warlock knew what he was talking about. Adam had read plenty of fascinating books and seen enough fascinating movies to know people were an interesting bunch. Even Adam's tiny frame of reference informed him that there was too much of the planet Earth to ever be experienced. That's what made it so much fun. There was always something new, waiting to be discovered.

Why would anybody want to change that?

"Adam!" It was his father calling.

"We've got to get moving or we'll miss the Changing of the Guard," said his mother, who was stowing a map in her purse. "You'll like seeing that, won't you?"

"I'm coming."

The Youngs started down the path.

"And what do you think of London, honey?" asked his mother.

"It's all right." It really was.

-----

1. Also, _Finish your cauliflower, dear. There are people starving in India._

2. Wensleydale had done Adam's research.

-----


End file.
